Birthdays
by allthingsdecent
Summary: A fluffy little House/Cuddy love story.


_Disclaimer: The actual creators of House would never do anything this cute._

"Why do women always expect us guys to be mind readers?" House slurred.

It was about midnight on a Friday night, and House was holding court at his favorite dive bar. He had a soused-yet-enthusiastic audience—the kind of unlucky-in-love barflies who had been recently dumped by their ladies (or had never had a lady to begin with).

"Yeah!" they replied in unison.

"And why do they have to overreact to everything?" House continued.

"Exactly!" the guys encouraged.

"Can't anything ever just be a small deal instead of a huge fucking big deal?" he said. He was on a roll.

"You said it!" they agreed.

"And why do women even care so much about birthdays?" he continued.

With that, the bar grew quiet.

"Dude, you forgot your girlfriend's birthday?" someone asked, in a hushed voice.

"I didn't forget," House muttered, staring glumly into his now-empty glass. "I just didn't care. I didn't think she'd care."

"All women care," another guy said.

"Not my woman. She's different."

"Obviously, she's not that different, otherwise you'd be with her right now instead of here with us."

"Good point," House conceded, gesturing for the bartender to refill his drink. "She told me she was expecting me to surprise her—with a gift or a party or something. It's like, does she even know me?"

"Wow, man, you really fucked up."

House sighed. "Yeah, I guess I did. But it's too late now, right? The damage is done."

The guys collectively scratched their heads. A fallen warrior needed their help.

"Maybe a really expensive gift?" one offered.

"No," said another one. "What you need is a grand romantic gesture."

House looked at him. "A grand romantic gesture," he repeated. He stared off into the distance—an idea had taken root. "Yeah."

He slapped some money on the bar.

"Thanks fellas," he said.

########

He wandered down to Cuddy's office, first thing Monday morning.

"Thanks for calling me this weekend," she said sarcastically.

"You kicked me out!" House protested. "You told me you didn't want to see me."

"Yeah, but I figured you'd at least call me the next day—to apologize."

"I thought I'd let you cool down a bit," he said. "Besides, my gift for you wasn't ready for its close-up yet."

"Your gift?"

"Yeah," he said, smiling. "In case you forgot, it was your birthday on Friday."

"Cute, House."

"You wanna see it?"

"I suppose," she said skeptically. He wasn't carrying a box.

He took off his jacket and started to unbutton his pink Oxford.

"What the hell are you doing?" she said. "You think I want to have sex in my office for my birthday?"

"Hold on a sec," he said. Instead of removing the shirt, he tugged it down enough to reveal his upper bicep.

"What on earth is that?" she said, squinting at him.

"A grand romantic gesture," he said.

She walked up to him, looked at his arm.

"I heart Cuddy," she read. "With an anatomically correct heart. Adorable, House. How did you get a fake tattoo like this made so quickly?"

"It's not fake," he said.

She looked at him, licked her thumb and tried to wipe off his tattoo.

"Are you insane?" she asked.

"Happy birthday!" he said.

"Were you drunk when you got this?"

"Out of my skull," he admitted.

"So now what are you going to do?"

"What do you mean, what am I going to do?" he said. "Stop wearing tank tops in the office, I guess. Oh wait, I don't wear tank tops in the office—or anywhere else. It's for your eyes only, boss. I was kind of hoping you'd get an 'I heart House' tattoo for my birthday . . . whenever it is."

Cuddy folded her arms.

"What are we, in high school? You're going to carve my name into a tree next? What are you going to do with that thing if we break up?"

"We're not going to break up," he said sincerely.

"Yeah, right, of course not. How foolish of me. . . But what if we do?"

"I guess I have to find another girlfriend named Cuddy," he cracked. "You'd have it much easier with House: I heart House music. I heart House painters. I heart the House of Representatives. The possibilities are limitless. . . "

"I'm not getting a tattoo," Cuddy said.

"I know," he said, looking at her seriously.

She sighed, exasperated, but slightly flattered, and pulled his shirt down to look at his arm again.

"That's actually a very good illustration of a heart," she said, with a soft smile.

"Al is the Rembrandt of all-night tattoo artists," House said.

She gave him a somewhat conciliatory hug. "You're a moron, but I love you."

"Happy birthday, Cuddy," he said.

#########

"Let's see it."

It was Wilson, standing in the doorway to his office.

"You're going to have to be more specific," House said.

"Your credit report," Wilson said. "The tattoo, you idiot."

"Cuddy told you about that, huh?"

"Yes."

"What did she say?"

"That you're insane."

"Did she seem happy or freaked out or both?"

"Both–but leaning more toward freaked out," Wilson said. "Let's see it."

House checked the differential room to make sure it was empty, pulled down his shirt.

Wilson whistled.

"Wow. . .that is truly ugly."

House nodded.

"I considered a sun rising over an ocean with a rainbow—but this seemed more specific. To Cuddy."

Wilson grabbed House's arm, peered closer.

"Did it hurt?"

"Suffice it to say, I was feeling no pain when I got it," House said.

"And did you ever consider one of the more traditional declarations of love? A candlelight dinner? Skywriting? A ring?"

"Wilson, I think you of all people know that a ring is no more permanent than any other item of clothing. This, my friend, is forever."

"And what if you two break up?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"It's called reality-based thinking, House. You used to be a proponent of it yourself."

"The reality is, even if Cuddy dumps me, what the tattoo says will always be true."

Wilson shook his head and smiled fondly at his friend.

"Oh, House. I do worry about you sometimes."

######

House was over at Cuddy's place for dinner a few nights later. Things had pretty much gone back to normal since their big fight, but to House, it still felt like a slightly unstable truce. So he was being extra well-behaved these days—actually showing up for clinic duty; using a glass instead of drinking straight from the milk carton; that sort of thing. Tonight, he even offered to put Rachel to bed after dinner.

"You do the dishes, I'll sedate Rachel," he said. "Or maybe read her a bedtime story, if that would be more appropriate."

He grinned.

Cuddy swatted him with her napkin and watched as he took Rachel's hand and hobbled into the nursery.

She started to load up the dishwasher, but stopped halfway through. She sometimes liked to eavesdrop on House when he was alone with Rachel—they tended to be so damn cute together.

She walked to the nursery and peered in. And this was how she happened to witness Rachel discovering House's tattoo.

He was reaching for a book on the shelf above her bed, and his tee-shirt sleeve fluttered a bit.

"Whazzat?" Rachel said, ever curious.

"That," House said, looking down in dismay. "Is a tattoo."

"Whazzat?" Rachel repeated.

"It's, like, art for your body. It's something grown-ups do. . .but only after they get permission from their mommy. And probably never, because tattoos are dumb."

"Whazzit say?"

"You can read it, right?" he asked. He rolled back his sleeve. "What's that letter?"

"I," she said triumphantly.

"And what's that?"

"A blob!" she said.

"No. . . it's a heart," he said.

"That's not a heart, silly. THIS is a heart," she pointed to the pink and red dress that one of her dolls was wearing.

"That's not a real heart," House said. "That's a fake heart invented by greedy men on Madison Avenue because people can't deal with reality."

"Oh," she said earnestly.

"And what's that say?" he asked.

She wrinkled her nose, looked concerned for a second until she worked it out: "Cuddy! That's me!"

"Yeah, that's you," he said. "So what does the whole thing say?"

"I heart Cuddy . . ." she recited. "Whazzit mean?"

"It's just another way of saying I love you. You and your mommy both," he said.

"And when you take a bath, will it wash away?"

"No, it's here forever and ever."

"You love me and mommy forever and ever?" she said, bouncing up and down in her crib exuberantly.

House smiled, kissed the top of her head.

"As long as you two will have me."

######

Three months later, it was House's birthday (Cuddy had to remind him of this fact) so Cuddy dropped Rachel off with her mother and cooked coq au vin for him, which was actually a pretty big deal, considering she was usually more of a gourmet-to-go kinda gal.

"Thank you for my birthday dinner," House said, patting his stomach. "It was delicious."

"And now it's time for your present," she said, with a dirty smile.

"I hope it involves the words 'dance' and 'lap,' not necessarily in that order," he said.

"That can be arranged," she said, leading him into the bedroom.

"Sit!" she commanded.

He grinned. Plopped down in a chair next to the bed.

She took off her crisp white blouse and tight skirt, threw them at him provocatively. She'd made a point of wearing House's favorite lingerie—a see-through black and red teddy—and, because it was his birthday, she'd even worn the garter belt.

"I'm beginning to enjoy this birthday thing," House said happily, as she straddled him.

She grinded a bit on his lap, swayed back and forth, thrust her breasts in his face—pretended to kiss him, and teasingly pulled away.

"It's time for your present," she said.

"This isn't it?" he said, sliding his hand down her leg.

"No." She let him unsnap the garters. Then she took her leg, lifted it above his head. "This is."

House looked down. There, on her inner thigh was a small tattoo—of a cane.

He traced it gently with his finger.

"That's real?" he asked, almost in awe.

"The excruciating pain I experienced while getting it says yes," she said.

"Cuddy, I love it," he said, kissing it. He couldn't stop staring at it. "I love you."

She finally put her leg down, smiled, started unbuttoning his shirt.

"I love you too, House," she said. "But if you ignore my birthday next year, you're a dead man."


End file.
